Mr Pickwick and the Briggins Family
by Fay93
Summary: The Pickwick Papers. Mr Pickwick finds himself in 21st century America. One-shot.


Mr Pickwick and the Briggins Family

I've had fun with the idea of Mr Pickwick interacting with a modern family. I hope you enjoy this as much as I have writing it. You cannot conceive how much I enjoyed introducing our favourite philosopher to the _Wii_.

Again, enjoy. :)

* * *

"Oompf," said Mr Pickwick, rubbing the side of his head.

He looked around, scrutinizing his surroundings carefully. He was sitting on very green grass. There was a very queer piece of architecture on his right, by way of house; it was all made of a material he could not quite place... not wood, certainly, or brick either. He looked to his other side, his right -- and he could scarcely believe what he saw: a grey smooth road, the finest he'd seen yet, and very, very odd automobiles driving down it, some of them giving an occasional honk.

Mr Pickwick had heard of automobiles, so he knew their appearance; he had seen pictures of Ford's creations in the paper very often, but they were nothing like _these _vehicles. They were quite shiny and flashy, even the black and brown ones. And the red ones or those of other equally absurd colours... Mr Pickwick shuddered.

For the life of him, he could not conceive how he was here.

He was, it seemed, one moment calmly sipping his tea, while reading his Sunday paper, and the next sprawling here on this strange rectangle of grass-covered ground.

"Hey, watcha doin' on the Briggins' lawn?" cried a teenager, ambling down the sidewalk, and looking curiously at Mr Pickwick.

Mr Pickwick took one look at the speaker and became still more bewildered. He had already established, with his natural quickness of mind, that he was dreaming, but he hardly dared think he could conjure up such queer sights in his imagination as this young person. For young he was; by the structure of his face he seemed fifteen or so, but he was awfully tall to Mr Pickwick – and gangly. And he was dressed very shabbily – Mr Pickwick could see that the material of his clothing was by no means destitute, but his manner of dressing was very appalling.

Mr Pickwick stood up quickly, and addressed the young man.

"Good day, my boy," he said hesitantly. "Could you, perhaps, be so kind as to tell me where I am?"

"The Briggins' lawn," repeated the boy, still looking curiously at Mr Pickwick.

"I know no Brigginses," murmured Mr Pickwick to himself. Then addressing the boy again, "On what lane, in what city, in what shire?"

"Allen Street, Springfield... but what's a 'shire'?" said the boy, wishing he could just go on, and disregard this clownish old man (Mr Pickwick was in nineteenth century attire, mind you) – his house was right next door.

Mr Pickwick sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes. He wished that this dream would just pass, and let him be.

"What country?" he said slowly, disregarding the 'shire' bit.

"The U.S.," said the boy, now as bewildered as Mr Pickwick was. What kind of an idiot tourist was this, that didn't know what _country _he was in? He supposed he would be asked next what continent this was.

"I beg your pardon? The yes? What continent am I in?"

The boy groaned.

"Listen," he said. "I don't know what kind of a freak joke this is, but if you can just leave me alone, I'll forget the whole freaking thing." Figures, he thought. His friends probably paid this freak to come freak him out. Oh, boy. This was really getting to him. His vocabulary, as of now, just diminished to that single word. Freak.

Mr Pickwick was now desperate. He scrambled towards the boy, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Please, tell me: what continent?" he said.

"Freak," he replied succinctly, brushing him off and pushing past him, almost running up the driveway to his house. He jumped over the front steps, and slammed the door behind him.

Mr Pickwick paused for a moment to reflect mournfully and deeply on youthful insolence, then shook his head sadly and made his way down the street.

He presently came upon the opening of a major road, built along a highway; but of course our dear Mr Pickwick could not know that. Certainly he found much to speculate silently on, and himself provided an interesting spectacle for the people who passed him; he, in his old-fashioned trousers and waistcoat, did look rather singular. As for what Mr Pickwick thought of _them_, let us just say he found _their _clothing rather immodest and the fashion bizarre.

One other striking thing Mr Pickwick noticed, were the advertisements brought occasionally into his sightline. On one, he read the words, "American Idol", above which was a dazzling array of colour. He started.

Oh, bother. _America. Of course._ "The U.S." – and he was just reading on his Sunday paper (_Back home, _he thought vaguely) about some crop disease in northern America. Mr Pickwick was very distressed; he had already deduced that this could not be his own time, and it was an added blow that he was an ocean and more away from England. He was truly dismayed... dream or no.

"This is deuced annoying," muttered Mr Pickwick darkly, in an uncharacteristically vehement way, after a couple had just passed him with looks of amused astonishment at his odd attire.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a pretty child in a pink frock dash out into the street, not heeding the many cars hurtling towards her. In that nanosecond, Mr Pickwick's noble character won out, and before he had time to be surprised at himself, he had darted after her, hobbling as quickly as he could with his cane tapping awkwardly against the pavement.

He grasped the girl by her shoulders, and without accident (Mr Pickwick devoutly believed that they only emerged unscathed by God's divine intervention) hauled her back to the sidewalk.

The little girl (she must have been five or so) holding an ice cream cone in her hand (minus one chocolate scoop, courtesy of the recent fiasco) looked up at him with wide, blue eyes. "Are you for real?" she asked.

Her mother came running after her.

"Bridget," admonished the mother, taking the cone from her and wiping her daughter's mouth.

The stern tone was enough to make the girl look down in shame.

The mother stuck out her hand to Mr Pickwick. "Thank you so much, sir. I'm Brenda Briggins. You can't know how much I appreciate you going out there like that for my daughter."

Flustered, Mr Pickwick stared at her hand for a long time before seizing it somewhat hesitantly. He'd never shaken hands with a woman before. "Mr Samuel Pickwick, at your service, ma'am."

"This is my daughter, Bridget," she said, taking the little girl's hand.

Mr Pickwick looked gravely down at the little girl. "How do you do, Miss Briggins?"

"Who is this?" asked a new voice, and Mr Pickwick saw a large, comfortable-looking man peering at him through wide dark-rimmed glasses.

"Oh, Bradley, this is Samuel Pickwick," the woman told him. "He just saved Bridget's life."

The man looked perplexed, but nonetheless offered his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Pickwick," he said, shaking Mr Pickwick's hand vigorously. "I'm Bradley Briggins."

Mr Pickwick hid a smile. _Bridget, Brenda, and Bradley Briggins. _Evidently, this family was big on alliteration.

"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, looking at the family with benignity.

Bridget tugged on his waist-coat with her dirty, chocolate ice cream coated fingers. Mr Pickwick tried not to look irritated when he noticed the brown stain on his once immaculate clothing.

"Mr Pwick," she said, adorably, although Mr Pickwick certainly didn't think so. He was appalled at this variation on his noble name.

Nonetheless, he very admirably smiled at her and replied, "Yes, Miss Briggins?"

Bridget stared up at him, and held out her arms. "I want up."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh dear, please excuse my daughter, Mr Pickwick," said Brenda Briggins hastily. "Brad, pick her up."

Bradley Briggins obediently did as his wife asked, and bent down to scoop his daughter up into his arms.

"Daddy, can we have Mr Pwick for dinner?"

Shocked, Mr Pickwick stared at the little girl. He could not believe that such an innocent-looking child had a cannibalistic bent. Brenda and Bradley Briggins pursed their lips to conceal their mirth.

"Mr Pickwick," said Bradley Briggins, addressing him respectfully. "I believe my daughter meant to say, that she would be pleased if you joined us for dinner tonight. We must show our gratitude by tangible means. If you have no fixed engagements...?"

"I am very happy to accept your invitation," said Mr Pickwick, relieved, but still eyeing Bridget Briggins suspiciously. Have his illustrious person for dinner, indeed!

He followed the Brigginses sullenly down the street. It was all Sam Weller's fault... if he hadn't been so thoughtful and bought him that confounded Sunday paper. For of course that bit about American crops triggered this absurd dream.

He was so intensely occupied with condemning his manservant's considerateness, that he didn't notice when they (he and the Brigginses) turned up Allen Street, the road he had landed on in the first place. He didn't notice any of this, until the Brigginses stopped in front of their house.

Mr Pickwick visibly started. Then it came to him.

_The Briggins' Lawn_.

"Curious..." muttered Mr Pickwick, following the Brigginses through the front door.

"Well, make yourself at home, Mr Pickwick, while I go make dinner!" said Brenda Briggins cheerfully, donning an apron. "Bridget, behave nicely to our guest, okay?"

Bridget Briggins nodded solemnly, and turned to Mr Pickwick.

"Mr Pwick, do you wanna try my new game?" she asked, very politely too.

Bradley Briggins chuckled, saying, "Well, if you need me, Brat" – Mr Pickwick noticed that even this nickname had the same starting consonants as "Briggins" – "just call down the basement. I'll be at my 

pool table. That okay with you, Brenda?" He yelled the last. Mr Pickwick thought it was very bad form, with a guest and all.

"Yes, whatever," Brenda Briggins yelled back.

Bridget Briggins took her new friend's hand in her own, and tugged Mr Pickwick into a room with several couches and a purple carpet. She padded her way immediately to an odd rectangular, very solid box, and sat in front of it, attaching some odd devices to it by way of wires. Very expertly, too, for a five-year-old.

Mr Pickwick hardly knew what passed in the next two hours; he obligingly took one of the devices upon Bridget's insistence, and pressed the buttons as she told him too. When he asked her by what name the thing went, Bridget, very shocked, said emphatically: "The _controller_."

The images that played across the face of the box quite enthralled Mr Pickwick, and he seemed to automatically press the hard plastic buttons. It seemed very natural.

At the end of the game, Bridget looked angrily at the box and the device in her hand, then dropped the latter and ran out of the room. Vaguely, Mr Pickwick heard her whine, "I don't like Mr Pwick. He beat me at _Ice Age_."

"Well, dear, why don't you help me then, by setting the table?" came Brenda Bridget's cheery voice.

"Okay, Mommy."

Dinner was a pleasant affair, although Mr Pickwick did glance very sceptically at the odd dishes placed on the table. He was very hungry, however, and he ate with gusto, then even deigning to compliment Brenda Briggins on her culinary skill.

"Why, thank you, Mr Pickwick," she smiled.

The family and Mr Pickwick gravitated towards the room with the couch and purple carpet after they were done, and Mr Pickwick shortly began to drowse after settling himself on the comfortable sofa. He sleepily regarded Bradley Bridget reading _Sesame Street _and _Robert Munsch _to his daughter, while Brenda Bridget talked on a very modern telephone. He yawned.

* * *

Mr Pickwick awoke with a start. There he was, in his familiar bedchamber, in his comfortable bed and sheets. He blinked blearily, then cautiously made to get up from the bed. He walked to his rocker over which his waist coat was draped, and examined it.

Yes, there it was. A small, nearly imperceptible brown, murky stain. Mr Pickwick smiled as little Bridget Briggins' voice resounded in his mind: _"Mr Pwick..."_

He turned to his window, lost in the philosophical contemplation only very great minds are capable of.


End file.
